Viking Comp
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“We can’t just let them go,” I said. “They’re a threat.”
He shrugged the motion causing his cloak to slip off his shoulder and dangle in front of him. He reached behind it to pull it back over his shoulders, but before he could do so, I grabbed the garment from him and held it against me.
The fabric was thick, and soft, and smelled like smoke, ash, and sweat. It reminded me that we had been at this for days now—days without food or rest or sleep, just us two battling our way across a strange land. We were both exhausted, but not even exhaustion could quell my anger at these men who had murdered my brother’s wife and children.
I felt as if something inside me had snapped into place when I saw those dead women lying on their backs in the snow. Something primal rose up within me then, something deep down that made me feel as if my body would explode with rage, yet still somehow remain calm enough to know how to direct my anger.
This was a feeling I hadn’t known since childhood; it was an animalistic thing that caused my heart rate to accelerate, my hands to tremble, and my blood pressure to rise. At that moment, I knew what I wanted more than anything else in the world: revenge.
As soon as the words escaped my mouth, they sounded ridiculous. They seemed far too childish to be uttered by any man of my age, much less a warrior-king. Yet there was no denying that I did want vengeance. And while I didn’t expect my father to agree, I wasn’t going to give up until he relented and gave me permission to act.
It took us another day to reach the town where the ambush occurred. We found the burned remains of one of the horses and the bodies of some of the other horsemen. But the rest of them must have gotten away because we never found the ones responsible.
That night, I slept in a field next to the road. The grass was short, the ground hard, and I had only a thin blanket to keep myself warm. I woke up early in the morning, shivering, hungry, and tired beyond belief.
As I stood beneath the sun’s rays, staring out across the barren terrain, I wondered why anyone would choose to live here. Why would people come all the way out here to settle? There was nothing here. Nothing except endless stretches of barren wasteland.
How many times had we traveled through places like this during my journey home to Iceland? Hundreds? Thousands? Maybe more? All those years ago, I’d thought that the world was vast, and filled with possibilities, but now, standing in this bleak landscape, I realized that I’d been wrong about everything. My dreams were gone forever.
The only reason to travel north would be to find plunder, which meant you had to get past enemies such as these. So why bother? What purpose does traveling aimlessly serve? If you seek wealth, then you should head south instead. You’ll make a better time and arrive sooner at your destination.
If you seek love, then head east. You won’t find her waiting for you in this godforsaken part of the world.
And if you seek peace…well, good luck.
Still, despite knowing this, I continued walking, taking the same path that led back toward the coast. After a few miles, I spotted a small farmhouse ahead. It looked like no one lived there, though, which was odd given its proximity to the sea. Most likely, the farmer was simply using the building as a shelter for livestock or tools.
That made sense. With no one living there, I decided to set up camp outside of the house rather than risk being seen by someone coming out. Even though it was broad daylight, the area was deserted, so I doubted anyone would see me.
I stripped down and washed, scrubbing every bit of dirt and grime off of my skin. Then, after wrapping my cloak around my naked body to cover my shame, I laid out my bedroll near the door, hoping it would draw heat from the hearth fire inside.
There was no telling how long I’d been asleep, but suddenly, I heard footsteps approaching. A man entered the room wearing a leather jerkin and carrying a bow in his hand. “What are you doing sleeping here?” he asked gruffly, pointing his weapon at me. His voice was low, raspy, and sounded as if it came from deep within the folds of his throat.
“Nothing,” I answered. I sat up and pulled my hood over my face, hiding my features.
This surprised him. For a second, he stared at me blankly. “You’re not one of us.”
His accent was different than the others but similar to what I remembered hearing in Denmark. He spoke slowly, making sure that I understood what he was saying. Perhaps he feared that I might be one of the enemies.
But I could tell right away that he was speaking the truth. He was a Dane, just as I’d suspected. No doubt he and his companions were looking to raid the village nearby.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
He hesitated before answering. “They’ve all left. Left us, I mean. Went somewhere else, I guess.”
We both knew what that meant. This land belonged to the Danes. These people had abandoned their homes to escape their enemies.
“How many men do you have?” I asked.
Again, he paused. When he finally spoke, the answer surprised me. “Not many. Just three.”
Three against hundreds of our warriors? Not even close. Three against thousands? Definitely not.
“So what do you think of the idea of an alliance?” I asked, trying to sound confident, although my heart felt like it was sinking into the pit of my stomach. I hoped they didn’t know too much about who I really am. Otherwise, they might decide to kill me on the spot.
For a moment, he considered me, studying my eyes, my hands, my feet. He seemed to be searching for something. Finally, he shook his head. “Why would you want to help us? We don’t need any help. In fact…” He stopped himself mid-sentence.
“Yes?” I prompted him.
He nodded, turning back toward the door. “Come with me.”
After another awkward silence, we walked through the house and into the barn. There, we found two other men sitting around a table, eating hard bread, drinking ale, and smoking pipes. They were obviously travelers. One wore a simple woolen tunic; the other, a loose shirt.
Both men were older and scruffier than most of those I’d met recently. The third man stood behind them, watching us silently.
It was the stranger’s companion who spoke first. “Who are these guys?”
“A couple of Danish farmers. Come to find plunder, eh?”
Both men laughed at this, nodding at each other. Their laughter was loud enough that I could understand the words, even without understanding the language.
As we approached the table, the man who’d spoken earlier gestured toward me. “This is Ragnar. And Ragnar, these are our friends.”
Ragnar grunted. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t bothered to learn the name of his fellow countrymen.
The two Danes exchanged glances. “Are you going to invite us in?” the traveler asked.
“Of course.”
In moments, we were gathered around the table. I noticed that the men only used knives and forks when eating, while I preferred to use my fingers. But since I had nothing better to offer, I did as they did.
Now that he’d invited us inside, I wondered why he wasn’t asking for anything in return. Maybe he just wanted to talk, I thought. Or maybe there was some trick to what I was thinking.
Still, I decided to play along. It couldn’t hurt to make new allies, especially ones as powerful as these men.
Our host took a seat across from me. With a sigh, he leaned back against the wall. “Let me ask you a question,” he said, leaning forward. “Do you ever get tired of fighting?”
My instincts told me to lie. To say yes, because that would lead him to believe I was loyal to King Harald. But I also realized that it wouldn’t be wise to let my guard down so easily. So instead, I shrugged.
He frowned at me. Then he turned to Ragnar. “What does this guy look like to you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Does he look like someone who wants to fight? Does he look like a warrior?”
Ragnar looked confused by the question. He scratched the stubble on his chin and looked away. “No.”
“Then why would he come here? What possible reason could he have for wanting to join our ranks? Don’t you see? You’re wasting your time talking to him.”
At that, the man called Thorgrim spat out his pipe stem and ground it under his heel. “You can insult me if you want,” he said. “But I’ll remind you again: I’m not playing games. If you don’t think I’m serious about finding an ally, then I suggest you leave now.”
Thorgrim continued to stare at me, waiting for me to reply. After a few more seconds, I finally nodded. “Very well. Tell me what I must do.”
***
THE WIND WAS BLOWING SWIFT AND STEADY OUT OF THE NORTH THAT NIGHT, RAINING cold droplets onto my face and shoulders. My cloak flapped against the back of my neck, wetting my hair, which was plastered to my skull. Rain dripped off the end of my nose and splashed onto my cheeks. I pulled the hood up over my head and wrapped it tight around my ears.
Rainwater made its way past my leather jerkin, soaking into my clothes. The rain felt good on my skin but was uncomfortable in my eyes. A single tear ran down my cheek.
When I heard the sound of hooves approaching, I glanced over my shoulder and saw the black shape of a horse galloping toward me. For a second, I worried that it might be one of the wolves that had attacked us earlier, coming back to finish the job. But the horse was too big, too close, and too fast.
Forcing myself to ignore my fear, I stepped aside as the animal passed, falling behind it until we came alongside the wagon where Olaf sat. His eyes widened in surprise, and he smiled. “Well, I didn’t expect to see you again today,” he said.
I shook my head. “Not sure how much longer I’m going to last either. This weather isn’t helping.”
Olaf nodded, pulling the reins of the horse to bring it closer to the wagon. “It’s miserable. I hate riding in this stuff.”
We climbed aboard. I tried to hide my discomfort from Olaf, but I knew he could feel my misery. We rode quietly for several minutes, watching the rain fall and listening to the horses snort and nicker in their sleep. Finally, I cleared my throat.
“Did you hear any news from the others?”
His smile faded. “None yet.”
“I know it doesn’t help to worry, but I wish they’d hurry.”
Olaf sighed. “They’ve got all day to ride, and they’ve been gone for almost a week. They won’t get here tomorrow or even the next day. There’s no need to rush.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I replied, though I still hoped that the others were making good time.
A short distance ahead, we reached a low hill with trees growing around its base. In the distance stood a small farmhouse, smoke rising from its chimney. “There it is!” Olaf exclaimed, pointing to the house. “That’s where we’re staying tonight.”
As we approached, we could see a woman standing on the porch. She wore a dark woolen gown, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her long brown hair fell to the middle of her back. She watched us approach. When she noticed me looking at her, she motioned us to stop.
Olaf pulled up beside the wagon, and I dismounted. As soon as I did, I regretted it; my feet sank ankle-deep in mud. It took great effort to keep them dry while I walked forward, but eventually, I arrived at the front door.
The woman opened it without saying anything. She was taller than I expected, maybe six inches shorter than Olaf, and she seemed older than most of those who lived along this road. Even though she wore the same type of clothing as everyone else, I couldn’t tell whether she was wealthy or poor. Her expression was impassive, neither friendly nor unfriendly.
She invited us inside, and we followed her through the entryway and into a large room. I looked around the interior. It wasn’t like any place I had ever seen before. Shelves lined the walls. Books, jars full of dried flowers, pots of paint—all these things were neatly stacked and arranged by size, color, and texture.
Some shelves held nothing but books, and others held only clay jars. Everywhere I looked, there was something to look at. And every object was covered with dust, just as if it had never been touched since it was placed there.
Olaf greeted the woman, asking her name, but she gave him no answer. She turned away and closed the door behind us, leaving us alone.
He led me to the far wall, to a tall shelf that ran the length of the room. He picked up an old book, a thin volume bound in leather, and handed it to me. “Here, take this,” he said, his voice sounding tired. “I don’t think you’ll have much luck finding what you want, but it should give you some idea about how the people live here. Maybe it will help you figure out how to talk to them.”
I thanked him and studied the cover: “Egil’s Saga.” That was the name of the saga we were writing together. At least, we were working on it now. I remembered the story well enough to recall that Egil’s son, Eirik, was killed when a dragon ate him. If I could find the dragons, perhaps I could kill one and save the lives of my friends.
I set the book down and moved onto another shelf, searching for anything that would be useful in our search. But as I glanced over each item, I realized that none of them held the answers I sought. Most likely, none of them even existed anymore. The people here must not believe in magic.
Still, I continued to browse, trying to remember everything I might possibly need to know. A few moments later, I found myself staring at a thick, heavy book bound in greenish leather. It had gold lettering stamped onto the spine, and the letters shone brightly under the light streaming in through the window. My eyes traced the words.
“Odin’s Poetry.” I felt my heart beating faster, and my fingers trembled as I lifted the book from the shelf.
Olaf was standing nearby, watching me intently. “What do you think?” he asked, nodding toward the book.
My excitement deflated. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Too bad it’s so expensive.”
Olaf laughed. “Don’t worry, Sigurd. I’ve already taken care of that for you.”
In fact, Olaf had bought several copies of Odin’s Poetry. His plan was to sell them to collectors at a high price and then use the money to pay for other supplies such as food and weapons. We wouldn’t be able to afford much more than that until we sold the first batch. But the extra funds would make a difference in the quality of what we produced.
Olaf knew how to get the best value from his investments, which was why we had become successful merchants in the first place. Now that I thought about it, I understood how he had known I’d come back from Iceland with all that wealth.
He must have guessed because I didn’t seem the sort to spend money foolishly. Not like the men we often encountered, spending their last coins gambling or drinking themselves silly. I hadn’t wanted to go home empty-handed. So I had spent my share of the money on goods that made good gifts.
And I had purchased the rest of the books for myself, knowing they would make excellent additions to the collection I planned to leave behind.
Olaf took the book from me and placed it on a lower shelf, where it lay alongside other volumes. Then he told me to keep looking while he went outside and spoke to someone. After a short time, he came back inside, carrying a sack filled with parchments.
“You can stop searching now,” he said. “We’re ready.”
The End